


Subject A-17F

by cdpdoodler



Category: Spider-Man (Video Game 2018), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Drug Use, Electrocution, Human Experimentation, I only wrote this to get over writers block, Insanity, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oscorp - Freeform, Unethical Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 07:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16445840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cdpdoodler/pseuds/cdpdoodler
Summary: Peter is being held and tested in an Oscorp facility, and Oscorp is   not the most ethical corporation.(human experimentation Peter angst don't @ me)





	Subject A-17F

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to get over writer's block but I hope you enjoy ^^)/

Peter had forgotten.

 

Really, he started to forget the day he was dragged down into this hellhole and injected seven ways to Sunday. Sedatives, he had presumed, but it must have been more than that. He was still both Peter Parker and Spider-man then, though now the line was blurred beyond recognition.

God- he really thought he could escape Oscorp back then, hadn't he? He always quipped to the guards (or "escorts") even when he didn't get a response, fought back against any scientist who touched him. He hadn't even thought to keep track of the days.

There was a solution to every problem he caused: not eating the food he knew they drugged only got him more supplementary injections and eventually an IV drip. Any guard who acknowledged his words was quickly replaced, and Peter soon stopped keeping track of their faces, only seeing their uniforms, white, white, always clinical white. The fluorescent lights would always be buzzing when he woke up in his cell from drug-induced sleep. He never actually knew how long he slept, only that he was never kept awake for long. Still, the hours cooped up only waiting his next meal or shot were excruciating.

He wasn't sure I'd it was a direct result of the drugs or just the overall feeling of hopelessness that shrouded this place, but things became a routine all too quickly. The white walls, clean equipment, and firm restraints combined with unknown substances blurred everything into a maddening monotony. Voices and names and faces became too far out of reach as he fell into step with the facility around him. Parts of his brain would scream at him-- so loud, too loud for this tiny white cell-- to remember, to fight back and escape from this medical horror. But much larger parts, logical parts, he thinks, groan for him to sleep, that there isn't anything waiting outside this existence for him, that even thinking these things leads to more pain.

And it does, noncompliance is always met with stronger sedatives, electric shocks, brutality. It's much easier to resign himself, he's too tired... He nods off on the concrete floor of his cell.

He's become intamately familiar with the cell now, his cell, a tiny white room with only a thick silver door breaking the monotony of the walls. There's a cot in the corner which he never goes to, but always wakes up in. He paces the floor, the walls, the celing, endlessly pushing in circles. He wishes he still had his webs.

 

The pattern is finally broken as they lead him to a room with a table in the center, different from where he gets his injections. He's prodded into laying down, stays still as they snap the restraints tight.

Once the guides step back, the pain is instant and unbearable. A thousand jolts of lightning shock through his body as he feels like his nerve endings catch fire. It eventually subsides, as the white coats talk in words he can't understand with ringing ears. They write something down, and then the pain continues.

 

And it goes on. And on. And on and on until he's screaming with the pain, at the pain, tearing and crying as his restraints, his skin, ripping something.  
Heavy breathing comes in short pauses. Things that should have been forgotten in this place resurface, both good and bad. Names and feelings bubble up: Aunt May, MJ, Harry, the secure feeling of home, of being loved, and more; all too quickly being snatched up and destroyed by dread, the closing feeling of hopelessness, true loss and pain and sadness. A gunshot, a graveyard, a red suit. All memories immediately crushed and left behind, leaving only vague feelings and the buzzing white of his cell in his brain. He lets go of his consciousness.

Many more times, he's taken to this Hell, every time coming away more drained of something, leaving only horrible, sanitary white and the bitter aftertaste of his own emotions. He hurts.

He clings to his walls much more, caring less about previous normalcy. He bares his teeth when the white coats touch him, teeth that he feels should have the threat of venom behind them. He'd break the lights if he could.

 

If in the beginning they were trying to sedate him, now it feels like they're doing the reverse. The mass of drugs they pump into him only make him feel more awake. He hasn't used his voice in months, but now he shrieks, screams at the pain, the walls, whatever will listen.

Their tasers do little to deter him now, he has felt so much worse. They take him out of his cage, harvest samples, stab him, prod him, strip him down and build him back up. An animal, a subject, a weapon. He throws his food tray against the door.

A-17F is branded onto his shoulder, followed by "PROPERTY OF OSCORP". He does not scream. His being is inside of those letters now, no matter how much he hates it. The only other thing to possibly hold on to are shadows of forgotten memories. They echo to him as he sits on the celing, refusing to sleep. He watches the door, always.

 

Seconds, hours, days after, it opens. The spider lets himself down, expecting to be dragged and prodded some more, but for the second time, he is surprised. He can taste the bile as he notices the change from the normal route. Change is never good.

He swears the guard spits at him as he shoves him through a different metal cell door. "Stupid bug" A kick to the back of his knees. "You deserve whatever this monster does to you"

The metal door slammed shut abruptly, leaving only the spider and the figure at the other end of the cell he was now in. They were wearing just a white shirt and pants, same as him, but their breathing seemed incredibly labored, concave chest heaving in a way human anatomy shouldn't allow. Several large, ugly bruises stained their fair skin as well, green and purple showing how physically damaged they really were.

The spider stayed quiet, not wanting to agitate the creature further, until it twitched and threw it's head backwards, tossing it's light hair away from its face.  
Peter was taken aback. Though the boy in front of him had obviously been greatly altered, something about the shape of his face and those familiar, haunted eyes made him cautiously creep forward. He breathed softly

 

"Harry?"


End file.
